


Homes

by Ladycat



Series: Happy Endings [6]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Bickering, Domestic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:52:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is disgusting"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homes

"This is disgusting."

"Pretty sure the thing that looked like a bantha exploding all over us last week was worse." Not that Spike knows what it is Connor's complaining over this time. It doesn't matter, though. Game's a game and Spike enjoys this one immensely.

Deep in the bowels of their neatly attired kitchen - Angel's obsessed again - Connor snorts. "Trust me. This is worse."

"Even when the guts went all purple and - _God!"_

Spike doesn't curse very often. Not in the traditional sense of the word, back when it meant something more than a random _bloody_ or even the more serious _fuck_. The idea of taking the Lord's name in vain still conjures up memories of a mouth full of a soap and a frown that was so sad, so tired, that William knew he'd do anything not to make it return.

He'd spent a few decades trying to overcoming it, deliberately, before giving it up as a lost cause.

This, though. Arm wrapped carefully around his mouth and nose, Spike blinked watering eyes and wished he knew what it was like. He'd lived in a _trash heap_. Not exactly a bouquet of roses or Paris' fluttering best.

This was worse. This was _inhuman_ , the stench leaking past the barrier of shirt, and arm, and - oh yeah - _not having to breathe_ to make his guts clench and his throat lock up. Sicking up was possible.

Last time he'd actually vomited was...

"Please tell me you're not trying to remember that last time you smelled something this bad?" The window at the far side, the one that faces nothing but brick and mortar, is shoved open with a frantic squeak. Connor sticks half his body through it, dropping something that splats into another wave of stench, both of them gagging. "Because that's just creepy and wrong. Especially since I know that's what you're thinking."

Spike waits a solid minute before risking his tender eyes or mouth. "What the bloody fuck was that?"

Connor, busy heading back to the kitchen, holds up a white stained hand. For a second Spike stares at the dribbles and thinks that what he's thinking is utterly impossible, simply because they'd never put it in the fridge. Eat it, sure, and happily. But _save_ it?

A cushion comes flying through the air, knocking the few stray tears from his cheeks.

"It was milk, you pervert! Really _old_ milk."

Oh. Right. That does make more sense. Calmer now that the smell's dissipating, Connor scrubbing his hands of the last lingering traces, Spike turns back to the telly. He'll never admit it, but maybe Angel's right. Once every six months is probably a little too long between cleanings.

"Spike, did you know you still have blood in here? _Congealed_ blood that is stuck to the bottom of the freezer and I am not scraping it clean?"

Well he knows _now_ , anyway. "Trade you for it," he calls. Light and cheerful and Connor knows it's a trap, knows he'll end up cleaning it anyway, but he obediently sticks his head out, long hair drifting around his pointy chin.

"Trade what?"

"Blow job while you watch _District 9_. Again."

"The whole movie?"

Spike pretends to think about it, body already shifting along the couch: low, and spread, a welcoming sight that makes Connor's throat click when he swallows. "Yeah," he says judiciously. "Whole movie then."

"Now?"

Wet tongue, bright teeth, and eyes follow him like magnets. Spike mentally grins, because his mouth is about to be too busy. "Whole, long movie."

And Connor is a lovely, perfect boy, proper as them that raised him never expected him to be (not even the one who whispers nightmares still, a thick book rule and crop both, and there's a reason why Spike likes cursing, true cursing, when he can manage it) nods. 

Heads back into the kitchen to finish his cleaning.

"If you start laughing, it'll be _two_ movies!"

"Think you can last that long, do you?"

"I'll tell Angel about that thing."

"Do, and your Da'll rip my tongue out, thereby ruining any chances at the blow-job you're after."

A pause, while the sounds of scraping and low, frustrating grunts fill the in between. "I really hate you."

"Yup. Hate me enough to keep me in this lap of luxury, watching telly while you slave for my comforts - "

The inarticulate noise that follows is sweet. Spike's got a scorecard, somewhere, to keep track of them. This makes the tenth this month, a record.

The silence drags after that but Spike knows Connor, knows exactly how far to push or pull, a master conductor with the best of symphonies for his pleasure.

So it's a few seconds more before Spike turns off the tv, gets up, and goes to help. "Not touching any more sour milk, though," he says, lowering his head for the kiss Connor's lifted up for.

"I think that's the worst of it."

"Ta, love." And they scrape and scrub and waste a good hour Connor wouldn't call wasting if Spike did something as silly as ask about it, body's brushing, fingers glancing, waiting, waiting -

For this. Just this.


End file.
